


When fury comes full circle, empathy rears its head

by owlickz



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Gen, hetcate amell, hetcate is such a snob i love her, iskra hawke, serena trevelyan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-03-08 08:33:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3202601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlickz/pseuds/owlickz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Hetcate Amell comes to Skyhold with the intent to kill the Inquisitor, but ends up finding too many emotions instead.<br/>And she also gives Serena Trevelyan 'the shovel talk'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When fury comes full circle, empathy rears its head

**Author's Note:**

> yeah you wanna hear a funny story? hetcate's name was originally supposed to be the correct spelling of 'hecate' but i'm an idiot and fucked it up and the spelling just kind of stuck  
> so there's that

The doors to the war room burst open with such a force they should have been knocked off their hinges. Guards were scrambling after a woman, who was easily repelling their attempts to subdue her with a steady barrier of magic. The woman was tall, elegant, and absolutely seething. Serena Trevelyan reached for her staff in defense as the intruder stalked towards her and her advisors. The mage was adorned in Grey Warden armor, her fingers clenching an impressive, and expensive, looking staff so hard her knuckles were white.

The woman’s icy-hot gaze drifted over each of the advisors until it fell on Serena, their eyes locking for a brief moment, until the woman then practically _exploded_ with rage. “YOU!” she accused, magic crackling dangerously on the air around her, “I’LL KILL YOU!” she roared, lunging towards the Inquisitor. Leliana all but appeared from thin air behind her and held her back, “Hetcate! Stop!” the spymaster commanded as the mage struggled in her grasp. “She let him die!” the woman cried, her face twisted with fury, “Let him die and let the woman who _tore_ Kirkwall apart live! The woman who sunk _my_ family name, started this needless rebellion, and harbors that _abomination_!” she spat, her eyes trained murderously on Serena. “Why does _barbaric woman_ deserve to live, while Alistair does not?! The man who help end the Fifth Blight! A good man who deserved to live as long as he could!”

“I-is that the Hero of Ferelden…?” Josephine whispered, her voice quivering slightly. Cullen had his hand resting on the pummel of his sword, looking from Serena to Hetcate in utter terror and uncertainty. Hetcate went limp in Leliana’s hold, “Why?” she asked again, utterly drained. The redhead looked down at the warden with a sympathy Serena had never seen, or known, the woman could possess, “I’m sorry, my friend.” Hetcate pushed the bard away and stood up straight once again, having to use her staff as leverage. A small crowd of mostly guards had gathered in the doorway; their uncertain glances going back and forward between the advisers, the Inquisitor, and the women who forced her way into Skyhold. Varric was among them, likely having followed the Warden as she rampaged through the main hall. His expression was unreadable, but Serena knew he was affected by the words Hetcate had spoken of Hawke.

“Searching, seeking for so long – it doesn’t matter anymore. Why him? They sit by the fire and she points out constellations. He teaches her to use a sword, listens as she complains about the outdoors. _Maker’s breath, you’re beautiful_.” Cole murmured from beside Varric, gaining the attention of all in the room. The boy shifted self-consciously as all eyes fell on him, shrinking away behind the dwarf.

Hetcate studied the boy for a moment before turning back toward the Inquisitor and company, eyeing each adviser until her gaze landed on Cullen. Their finally eyes met for the first time in ten years, so much left unsaid between them. The Warden quickly looked away, spinning on her heel and leaving the war room without another word. Cole had disappeared by this point, likely trying to follow Hetcate – to try and help her hurt. Everyone in the room let out the breath they had been holding, tension slightly easing. Serena looked to her advisors helplessly, “I…” she began, but found she did not have anything to say. They each eventually left the room, finding that no one was in the mood to plan any assault at that moment.  

Hetcate ignored the uneasy sidelong looks people were giving her. This was no surprise – she was adorned head to toe in the Grey Warden armor, a set reserved for the most high-ranking members of the Order. The Inquisitor had recently taken it upon herself to banish all wardens from Orlais in light of the events at Adamant. The mage stopped short, the end of her staff clicking against the stone. When she had intercepted Iskra by pure chance during her travels, the former champion had told her everything. Her cousin had spared no details and had little sympathy, but that was the warrior’s way – it was not their first run in and she had come to know to expect from her relative. Hetcate had set off immediately for Skyhold, hell bent on confronting the woman leading this holy army. Anger had driven her here, never giving thought to what she would actually do once she arrived, or what would happen after all was said and done. Well, it was after now and so she stood in the middle of a hall, in some mountaintop fortress, staring at the ground like a fool. The ache in her heart never ceased, never relented. Hetcate had not seen Alistair in over two years – letters had been the only form of communication between them.

“Maker, what do I do now?” she whispered, forcing her feet to move her to a secluded alcove along the wall. She sank onto the stone bench, her staff leaning against the wall beside her. The mage willed herself not to cry – no, she would not do so in front of strangers.  “I was there.” a voice sudden said from beside her. A young boy, the one from the war room, had appeared next to her on the bench. “His last thoughts were of you.” Hetcate frowned, “You’re not human.” She stated, eyeing him carefully. The blonde boy shook his head, “No, I am Cole – a spirit of compassion, or so Solas thinks.”

Hetcate raised a delicate eyebrow, “Really? I had a Spirit of Justice under my command in Amaranthine,” she told him, “It was inhabiting the body of a fallen Grey Warden; by accident of course. Are you haunting a corpse as well?” The boy – Cole – shook his head, “No, I’m not sure why I’m like this. I just am. But in this form, I can help.” Hetcate did not take her eyes off of him, “Help do what, exactly?” a thin smile formed on his lips, “Help the hurts. Heal them. Soothe them. Untangle the tangles and knots.” He craned his neck to look her directly from under his ridiculous hat, “You have a lot of knots.” He stated.

“When you’ve lived a life such as mine, you have much to be knotted about, Spirit of Compassion.” She retorted, finally looking away from him. “He takes up his sword, knowing it’s the end. _‘I’ll never see her again’_ he thinks, his heart clenching. ‘ _But she will be safe’_. He thinks of happy memories, happier times. _‘That time in the palace when we lay in bed all day after the Blight. The time she laughed to hard ale came out her noise. The crinkle in her brow when she is trying too hard to concentrate, or how her magic feels against my skin.’_ ”

“ _Stop_.” She croaked, hating the sound of her own voice, “ _Stop it_.” The spirit looked distressed, “I am doing it wrong, I am sorry. I want to help.” Hetcate twisted to face him, “Well you aren’t!” she snapped, standing suddenly, the stiffness from her old injury causing her to stumbled and grasp for her staff. Cole was there in an instant, steadying her and handing her the staff. The mage leaned heavily on it for a moment before straightening. She gave the spirit one last look before continuing down the hall. “Running never helps,” Cole murmured to himself, “You know that.”

Hetcate hastily made her way towards the gates of the fortress, determined to leave and get away from this madness and that spirit. She pushed past people unapologetically, each step more frantic as she drew closer towards the gate. Her leg old injury had found a perfect time to begin to act up, causing her to limp more prominently. She hurried down the stairs to the lower courtyard, the gates in sight. The relief that washed over her suddenly vanished as she saw Cullen standing in front of them, his arms crossed in a defiant manner – watching her as she stumbled like a fool down the stairs.

“Move.” She demanded as she finally reached him, “Out of my way, templar.” The blonde man frowned, “I am no longer a templar.” He told her. Hetcate slammed her staff on the ground in frustration, sending out an array of sparks, “Templar or not, move Cullen.” She seethed, her eyes narrowing dangerously. “No.” he replied, his voice disturbingly even. _‘Seems he has grown some backbone.’_ She thought to herself, but that did not matter – she had to get out of there. “ _You_ want me to _stay_?” she asked incredulously through gritted teeth, “The last time you saw me you threaten to cut me down where I stood. Told me I was evil, an abomination!” Hetcate was screaming at this point, drawing a crowd and Cullen was starting to look extremely uncomfortable. _‘Good.’_ she thought to herself, finding joy in his discomfort. The former Templar steeled himself though, “Hetcate, please, can we talk privately?” The mage eyed him suspiciously, “Fine.” She finally relented, letting him lead her up the stairs to the ramparts.

The pair looked over the abyss of snow and mountains, silence settling between them. After a moment Hetcate broke it, “I have half a mind to throw myself off of this wall.” She told him, her eyes trained on the horizon. Cullen turned to her immediately at her revelation, shock written plainly on his face. “You can’t be serious?” his voice was filled with worry – it made her sick. The mage shrugged, still not looking at him, “The love of my life is gone, I have no family, the wardens are in shambles, and the world has a new hero. I am no longer needed, and I am so very tired.”

The former templar then took a moment to look her over. Dark bags lined heavily under her eyes, her dark hair, pulled into a neat bun, striped with grey – brought on by stress rather than age. A face he remember as flush and untouched was now sunken and littered with small scars. In that moment Cullen was reminded she was indeed a warrior and no longer that apprentice of the Circle who fell asleep in open tomes and berated his chess skills.

“I kept tabs on you, you know.” She admitted after another long silence, “After what happened to you at Kinloch Hold I was worried for you, and the fact that you immediately buried yourself right back into duty – into the Order – after such an experience made me furious. I wanted to come find you and slap you until you saw reason.”

Cullen found himself grasping for words, startled by her revelation, “Why…why didn’t you?” he finally asked. Hetcate shrugged again, “A little something to do with the fact the last time you saw me you wanted me dead.” The man winced, looking back out on the horizon, “I have tried to write you so many times. I wanted to…I needed to apologize. Everything I said was undeserving of the person who saved me – especially undeserving of you.”

The mage gave him a sidelong glance, “I imagine you would have had difficulty getting such a letter to me, not knowing where I was.” Cullen shook his head, “I did when I was in Kirkwall – when everything started to come to a head. You were in Amaranthine – one of your wardens, Nathaniel Howe I think, was in the city for a time. He spoke with Meredith once – I asked about you.” Something close to a smile formed on Hetcate’s lips, “Ahh, Nathaniel,” she mused, fondness heavy in her voice, “Never spoke a word of it to me. Not unlike him though. He knows when to stay out of other people’s business.” She explained.

After a moment, the woman spoke again, “Sometimes, my heart hurts so much I cannot function. I feel as if I’m just _too old_ to be able to move on from him.” Hetcate let out a shaky gasp, finding herself unable to even say his name, “He was my whole life. The only reason I went on that hopeless expedition to stop the Calling.” Tears welled in in her eyes and she did nothing to force them away, “And I don’t even have a body to mourn and bury!” Her walls finally broke as she collapsed against the stone ledge in a boneless heap. Cullen scrambled quickly to catch her before she hit the ground. He held onto her, lowering them both to ground carefully as she clung to his armored chest. He stroked her back in an attempt to be soothing, and not as awkward as he feared.

Hetcate cried for a long time, eventually dissolving into quiet sniffles as the sun began to sink below the mountains and bringing the chill of night in its stead. Cullen pulled them to their feet, watching as Hetcate pulled away from him and giving her a careful look as she leaned heavily on her staff. “Ever since I got here one of my old injuries has been acting up,” she explained quietly, “The limp has always been better or worse depending on the day, but up here it’s particularly bad – the altitude perhaps.” Cullen nodded in understanding, walking behind her as she descended to stairs into the upper court yard.

A nervous servant approached them, “Ah, Commander, sir, Her Worship has had a room set up for t-the Hero of Ferelden,” she explained, not making eye contact with either. “She asked me to take her there when you two had concluded your, um, business.” Cullen nodded, “Of course, thank you.” He turned to Hetcate, “Goodnight, Warden Commander,” he bid, “Perhaps I shall see you in the morning.” The mage made a non-committal noise, “Perhaps. Goodnight Commander.” She responded in kind, following the twitching servant into the castle.

The next morning she awoke with tear sullied cheeks. Her dreams had been filled with memories of Alistair – treasured memories that were now beginning to plague her. Hetcate sat up slowly, looking around her loaned room. It was luxurious if anything; most likely reserved for visiting dignitaries and nobles. The woman swung her legs off the side of the bed, reaching for her staff to steady her as she stood. “Maker, I’m getting old.” She murmured to herself, wobbling over to the washing basin to begin her morning routine.

Hetcate pulled her hair back into it’s usually bun, frowning at the large streaks of grey running through her ebony locks. Once she was satisfied with the state of her hair, she began to redress in her warden armor, taking great care with each bucket and strap. Just because she felt like absolute rubbish, did not mean she had to look it. The mage looked herself once over in the mirror a final time, scowling at the puffiness of her eyes – that was something she could not cover up, before leaving the room swiftly.

The hallways were filled with servants, soldiers, and various others – bustling and busy. They all moved at a pace she was finding herself having a difficult time matching. “Milady!” someone called from behind her. Hetcate stopped, turning to find the same servant from the night before moving quickly, almost bordering on frantically, toward her. “Can I help you?” she addressed, slipping easily back into her Warden-Commander mask. The servant was slightly out of breath, “Y-yes, I was charged with taking care of you and your needs.” The woman explained, “I-I was also told to bring you to the feast hall once you awoke.”

Hetcate nodded, “Ah, thank you.” She replied, “Lead the way.” The servant nodded, “Yes, right. Please follow me, Milady.” They walked in silence until Hetcate decided to speak, “You sound Ferelden,” the mage observed, “I cannot imagine what brought you all the way out here.” The servant nodded, knotting her hands together nervously, “Aye, Milady, I hail from Redcliff.” She answered, “I-I was there when you stopped the corpses.”

Hetcate was surprised, “Really? That was quite a long time ago.” The Blight had been over for ten years; her days of traveling the roads and forests of Ferelden were long behind her now. Things had been almost _simple_ then. Nights of pointing out constellations she had read of in books from the Circle to Alistair. Discussing forbidden magics with Morrigan, poisons with Zevran, philosophy with Sten, and learning sword play from Alistair and Oghren. She had discussed the future of the Circles with Wynne, and Leliana had even attempted to help her learn to sing and play the lute – though she was terrible at both and still terrible to this day. But the bard had been patient with her through all the silliness. Those days were filled with learning to how life was lived outside of secure stone walls, as well as darkspawn, and they were the best days of her entire life.

Familiar pain gripped her heart, it twisting on her features. “A-are you alright Milady?!” the servant asked, panic rising on her voice. Hetcate waved her hand dismissively, “Just my leg – an old injury, nothing to be concerned with.” The servant still looked concerned, “Of course.” The rest of the way toward the feast hall was silent, the ambient noise of the hustle and bustle filling the halls around. “We’re here, Milady.” The woman announced, holding open the door. Hetcate nodded graciously, “Of course. Thank you…?”

“Mildred!” the servant supplied quickly, “My name is Mildred!” Hetcate gave her a smiled and a nod, “Of course. Thank you, Mildred.” She said, walking into the hall. She surveyed her surroundings, noticing Leliana tucked away in a corner with her face buried in papers and ledgers. She strode as gracefully as she could with her limp, sitting down quiet beside the redhead. “Hello, Hetcate.” The bard greeted, not lifting her eyes from the papers splayed out before her. “Hmm, busy I see.” Hetcate observed. Leliana scoffed, “You have no idea.” She replied, before sighing and pushing the papers away from her. Their eyes finally met, and the mage was greeted with unimaginable sympathy – her gut twisted painfully. “Hetcate, I…” the redhead trailed off, “There is nothing I can offer you, no words that I can would make this better.”

The mage looked away, “No. There isn’t.”

A hand was placed on her shoulder, giving a reassuring squeeze. Silence stretched between the two women before Leliana finally spoke, “What do you intend to do now?” she inquired. Hetcate shrugged, “I am not certain,” she replied, “As I told your Commander, my life and purpose had come to an end.” Leliana gave her a steady look, wanting to speak but Hetcate continued, “I still have my Wardens in Amaranthine at Vigil’s Keep who have remained loyal to me through the years, but what is the point? Your Inquisitor proved how corruptible we are and proceeded to banish the Order from Orlais.” The mage scowled down at the table, “Clarel, that stupid fool. Always too self-sacrificing and pigheaded, and never thinking _anything_ through.”

Leliana nodded, but said nothing and Hetcate was grateful for it. There was no use in trying to fill silence with meaningless words and the spymaster knew that. Eventually the ambassador – Josephine – came to join them, chatting with Leliana about some report or another. Hetcate toned them out, picking at the food she was given. The bench across from her creaked as two more people sat down. The mage glanced up to see that it was only Cullen and the Inquisitor, and childishly ignored them. Embarrassment and shame burned hotly in her belly from allowing herself to be so open with Cullen last night. She would not lose control on her emotions in such a fashion again.

“…Warden-Commander?” a voice drew her from her sulking. She lifted her gaze, which had been attempting burn holes through the thick wood of the table, “Yes?” she answered, trying her voice neutral, but it end up sounding rather hollow instead. “I was wondering if your quarters were to your liking?” the Inquisitor inquired. Hetcate looked back down at the table, “They’re satisfactory.” She replied. The Inquisitor look to Leliana and Cullen for help, but the bard simply raised an eyebrow and the former templar looked as though he wanted to bolt from his seat. Serena sighed; clearly she was not going to get any help from them.  Hetcate stood abruptly, “Good day.” She bid, exiting the hall.

Hetcate found herself still at Skyhold three weeks later.

No further conversation had happened between her and Cullen. In fact, the man nearly tripped over his feet running away as soon as he spotted her. The Inquisitor – emphasizing that she be called Serena – asked Hetcate to help train the rebel mages they had taken in at Haven, before leaving the keep on some mission or another. Most of them were young, having just passed their Harrowing before the Circles fell. Serena, being a Circle mage herself, knew they would need all the help they could get; and who better to teach them then the woman who stopped the Blight using magic. The young mages asked her all sorts of questions: How big was the Archdemon? How many darkspawn had she slain? Could she really lift ten cows one handed? Hetcate found it absolutely ridiculous and absurd, but found herself humoring them. Sternly perhaps, but humored them none the less.

It was on the first day of what would be her fourth week in the fortress that Cullen finally approached her. Hetcate had been instructing a couple of Apprentices in elemental fire magic, watching proudly as they hit their targets on their first try under her instruction. Cullen watch from beside her, “They’re doing much better,” he commented, “You would of have made an excellent Enchanter and teacher.” Hetcate smiled despite herself, “I used to wonder what would have happened if Duncan never recruited me, if I had stayed in the Circle.” she mused before scowling, “I would have probably been made Tranquil because of that damn fool Jowan. Even though I had gone to Irving as soon as Jowan and that Chantry initiate revealed their plan to me, Greagoir was demanding I be dragged down with them.” She snorted, “Then the fool goes and poisons the former Arl of Redcliff. He suggested I use blood magic to unposses the Arl’s son.”

“Do you know what became of him?” Cullen asked. Hetcate shrugged, “I gave him back to the Circle once was all said and done,” she replied, “I assume they executed him.” Cullen raised an eyebrow, “That is rather cold when speaking of someone you were literally once attached to the hip with.” Hetcate frowned at the man, “He ruined my entire life – and was practicing blood magic.” She snapped. Cullen held his hands up in surrender, “You’re right, I’m sorry.”

Hetcate found a laughing bubbling out of her throat, “You would do well to remember that phrase for the Inquisitor, Commander.” she teased. Cullen gaped at her, tripping over his words and stuttering like he had back in the Circle, “I don’t, I mean – what are you talking about?” Hetcate rolled her eyes and scoffed, “I am not blind,” she stated haughtily, as if she were offended, “The stolen glances, the way you follow her around like a mabari pup does its mistress.” Cullen flushed, looking away quickly. Hetcate rolled her eyes once more; “Is that why you have been avoiding me?” she prodded. Cullen cleared his throat, “I just thought that – what I mean to say is…yes.” He admitted.

The mage let out a long tired sigh, bordering on annoyed, “Cullen, what we had, what was between us, was over ten years ago.” She stated, “I’ve grown and moved on, and so have you. I care about you, but as one cares about their friends.” The former templar’s posture relaxed, relief flooding his expression. Hetcate arched a finely groomed eyebrow at him, “You thought I was pining over you for ten years? Someone is a little full of themselves.” She crossed her arms across her chest, eyeing him accusingly. The man shifted uneasily, “I suppose it was foolish.” He admitted guiltily, “I apologize.” Hetcate waved a hand dismissively, “No harm done, but you’re still a fool.” Cullen found himself laughing; yes, indeed he was.

It was on the fifth day of the fourth week of the Hero of Ferelden’s stay at Skyhold that Serena heard a sharp knock on her door. She looked up from around the mountain of papers on her desk, “Come in!” she called. She was expecting a servant, or even one of her advisors, but it was Hetcate Amell who came striding up the stairs into her quarters. The Grey Warden looked around her room with a critical eye, before drawing her gaze back to the blonde headed mage behind the desk. Serena unconsciously sat up straighter, the other mage suddenly reminding her of one of her sterner instructors from the Circle. “Ah, Inquisitor, or Serana rather as you prefer,” she began, her voice as regal as ever, “I am afraid you and I did not have the most proper of introductions.” Serena shifted nervously, gesturing towards the chair on the other side of her desk for the dark haired mage to take a seat at, “Yes, well, there was a lot going on and I have been away from the keep for a few weeks on errands.” The other woman chuckled, “Indeed.”

Serena quickly cleared her papers and missives away, so she could look her guest in the eye. “I am Hetcate Amell,” the woman began formerly, “Hero of Ferelden, Warden-Commander of the Ferelden Grey Wardens, Arlessa of Amaranthine, and arcane advisor to Queen Anora.” Serana shifted in her seat, “Some impressive titles you have there.” she joked weakly. Hetcate’s lips twitch into a small smile, “Yes, but you have some impressive titles as well – Herald of Andraste, the Inquisitor who leads holy armies of the Inquisition.” The blonde mage shrugged, “I try not to think about it – I have to sleep at night.” Hetcate laughed, “Yes, I have had similar feelings in the past.” She agreed, but turned serious, “But, if you run from duty for too long, it only leads to ruin.” She advised grimly.

They sat in a moment of silence before the Inquisitor finally spoke, “Not that I don’t appreciate the advice or company, Lady Amell,” Serena began, “But you seem to be a woman of purpose, and I doubt you’d come here just to chat.” The warden arched an eyebrow, “That would be a correct assumption.” she replied, “I have things I wish to discuss with you – well a person I’d like to discuss with you.” Serena was baffled, “Who? What person?” Hetcate sighed, “Cullen.” She elaborated. “Cullen?” the blonde echoed, confusion still clearly written in her expression. The warden let out an exasperated sigh, “You two are perfect for each other – both dim fools.” Serena tried to protest the insult, but Hetcate cut her off in a wave of her hand, “As I told the Commander, I am not blind.” She began. “Cullen and I knew each other at Kinloch Hold, before I was recruited as a Grey Warden.” Serena tilted her head slightly, “Oh, I had no idea.” Hetcate nodded, “I did not expect you to know; I suspect Cullen does not talk about his time at Kinloch Hold – for good reason.” She added, “But, you see, we were both young and with such youth comes… infatuation.” The blonde mage tried not to gape, “Y-you and Cullen were…?” A small smile tugged at the Warden’s lips, “No, we were not _together_ in any sense of the word. A templar should not take advantage of their charges, nor should mages pressure them to. You should understand the mutual respect in that instance – you did indeed come from a Circle.”

Serena nodded, “I just thought, I don’t know – it sounded almost like a fairytale, I guess.” She admitted guiltily. Hetcate chuckled, “Ah yes, the thrill of forbidden love that survives all trials and tribulations – who could not resist such a tale?” The Warden tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear before continuing, “It never went beyond long conversations into the late hours or the simple brush of hands in the hallways, and once a kiss in a secluded alcove. He was one of the templars involved in my Harrowing, and was watching over me when I awoke in my bed from the ordeal.” Hetcate smiled wistfully, “I thought he was handsome and kind, always courteous to us.” The smile quickly disappeared from her face, “When I was conscripted into the Wardens, we never had a real chance to say goodbye,” she explained, “And I did not see him until I came back later to the Circle for aid against the Blight.”

Hetcate frowned, “The tower was overrun by abominations – blood mages did terrible things to him.” She let out a soft breath, shaking her head, “It is not my place to tell you exactly when he experienced and endured. If he wishes to share that with you, he will.” Serena tried to swallow the lump him her throat, “I…” she attempted, grasping for words. The other mage shook her head once more, “You don’t have to say anything. What I came here today was to tell you that should you decide to pursue him seriously, know that I will destroy you if you break his heart.” The blonde woman gaped at her once more, watching as the Warden stood from her chair, “O-okay.” Serena answered pitifully. Hetcate looked down at her, “He is dear to me – like family,” she explained, “And I will not see him suffer any more than he already has. But, I sense you’re an honorable and genuine woman, so I do not think we shall have a problem.”

Serena just nodded dumbly, watching the other mage stride toward the stairs to leave, only having a slight limp in her walk today. Hetcate paused at the top step, resting her hand on the railing, “I have decided to stay,” she announced, “To try and fix that fool Clarel’s mistakes, and I will be contacting some of my loyal Wardens at Vigil’s Keep to meet me here. They are skilled and you need all the help you can get.” Hetcate began to walk down the stairs, but Serena stopped her, “W-wait!” she called. The Warden looked back at her over her shoulder expectantly, “Yes?”

The blonde bit her bottom lip before speaking, “Are you alright? I mean, with Alistair and everything?” Hetcate regarded her carefully for a moment, as if attempting to foresee a motive behind her question. “No, I am not alright,” she eventually said, “I will never be alright, I’m afraid; but Alistair would not want me to mourn him while the world tears itself apart.” The dark haired mage paused, appearing to think over her next words carefully, “Tell me, are you aware of what separates a Grey Warden from an average warrior?” she inquired. Serena shook her head, “Not exactly,” she replied, “I know there is some sort of connection to the darkspawn, and something about a Calling; but other than that, no.” Hetcate looked down at the hand still resting on the rail, “To put it crudely, wardens drink darkspawn blood.” She revealed, ignoring the shocked sound the other made, “We become part of the taint – part of the Blight. When Archdemons are slain, their souls, or essence, pasts on into the nearest Blighted creature. Darkspawn have no souls, and so the Archdemon is able to take over their body and live on, but Grey Wardens have souls.” she paused, looking back at the Inquisitor, “When a Warden slays an Archdemon, they become the nearest Blighted creature that the Archdemon’s essence seeks out. But, two souls cannot reside in one body, therefore both Warden and Archdemon are destroyed and the Blight is ended.”

“But you and Alistair survived.” The blonde mage piped up. Hetcate's eyes took on a far away look as she pondered over something for a moment, “Me and… Alistair had, special circumstances.”  She explained weakly, trying not to flinch at the mention of her beloved. “I cannot reveal to you what those were, for I made a promise and I will not break it.” Serena nodded in understanding, “Of course, I will not pry.” She reassured, though her curiosity was peaked. “Back to my original point,” Hetcate redirected, “If a Warden is not slain in battle or by some other means, the corruption in our blood eventually takes us. At first a Warden will hear singing in the back of their head, it slowly getting louder over time. Once this begins, a Warden will go off into the Deep Roads to die fighting," She explained, "In death, sacrifice.” The woman recited mournfully. “I fear the taint will not spare me much longer,” Hetcate revealed, “And when that day comes I will see Alistair again at the Maker’s side. So, as I appreciate your concern, please do not fret over me; I will be fine.”

And without another word the woman descended the staircase, leaving Serana staring dumbly into space at her desk. The blonde woman blinked slowly; she had just learned the inner most secrets of one of the oldest organizations in Thedas _and_ received the Hero of Ferelden’s permission to _court_ Cullen. “Maker…” she sighed, rubbing the heel of her hand into her eye tiredly. She stared at her remaining paperwork and decided that enough work had been done that day. Serena stood, stretching her arms above her head and decided a visit to her Commander was in order.


End file.
